Danny Phantom & The Olympians: The Lightning Thief
by lambchopfan1234
Summary: Parody of PJO: The Lightning Thief. When Danny Phantom, and Tucker Folley go to a mysterious tower, strange things start to happen. But when someone stole Dag Phanny's missing lightning bolt, Danny, Sam, and Tucker have to go and find it in 10 days!
1. Chapter 1: Cast

**Danny Phantom and the Olympians: The Lightning Thief**

By: lambchopfan1234

**Chapter 1: Cast**

Perseus "Percy" Jackson- Danny Fenton

Annabeth Chase- Sam Manson

Grover Underwood- Tucker Folley

Ares- Doctor Blowhole (The Penguins of Madagascar)

Dionysus- Rocko (Rocko's Modern Life)

Hades- Kimi (All Grown Up)

Zeus- Dag Phanny (my OC)

Kronos- Vlad Masters (Danny Phantom)

Luke Castellian- Coco La Booche (Rugrats in Paris)

Cerberous- Evil Poodle (Jimmy Neutron)

Gabriel "Gabe" Ugliano (AKA Smelly Gabe)- Jack Fenton

Nancy Bobofit- Francis (Fairly Odd Parents)

Mr. Brunner- Mr. Lancer (Danny Phantom)


	2. Chapter 2: Prelogue

**Danny Phantom and the Olympians: The Lightning Thief**

By: lambchopfan1234

**Chapter 2: Prelogue**

_In this chapter, I have changed a few things. This takes place when Danny was a baby..._

"**lambchopfan1234"**

"**lambchopfan1234 Presents"**

"**A lambchopfan1234 Production"**

A young baby was walking around happily.

"A goth a two too! A goth a two too! Yay! Fin!" cries Baby Danny.

He walks to watch Jack I and Maddie try to do the invention.

"It'd better work this time, OR I GIVE UP!" says Jack, happily. He turns the machine on, but it doesn't work.

"I give up," says Maddie.

They walk away, leaving Danny watching.

That night, in Danny's cradle, he was twisting and turning from this horrible dream.

"Mama, Dada?" asked Danny.

Danny walked to the lever.

"Hey, mayke I'll work tis time!!!" says Danny.

Just then, he turns it on, making it change his particles.

"_**2 weeks later..."**_

Somewhere on a ship, Jack Fenton, who recently took Danny to the doctor because Danny had a fever, was worried. Why would this happen? He didn't know why.

"**David Kaufman"**

Jack is rowing away, sadly.

"Beat me, you old, STUPID DUMMY!" laughs Vlad.

"No way, Vlad!" says Jack.

"**Grey DeLisle"**

Just then, they fight.

"Beat you, you total idiot!" says Jack.

Just then, Jack rows away.

"**Ricky D'Shon Collins"**

"If he EVER comes back, I'll kill him, and if he NEVER comes, I'll get his son instead!" says Vlad.

"**Danny Phantom and the Olympians: The Lightning Thief"**

Jack had finally made it to the underworld!

"**Written, Typed, and Edited by lambchopfan1234"**

_Well, that was the second chapter hope you liked it!_


	3. Chapter 3: IAVMPAT

**Danny Phantom and the Olympians: The Lightning Thief**

By: lambchopfan1234

**Chapter 3: I Accidentally Vaporize My Pre-Algebra Teacher**

_I dedicate this fanfic to **percabeththroxmysox2786 **because she likes PERCY JACKSON AND THE OLYMPIANS!!! Oh, yeah, and **percabeththroxmysox.**_ Chapter 1 has who plays who!

"_**11 years later..."**_

Look, I didn't want to be a half-blood.

If you're reading this fanfic because you think you might be one, my advice is: press back or close this computer window right now. Believe whatever lie your mom or dad told you about your birth, and try to lead a normal life.

Being a half-blood is dangerous. It's scary. Most of the time, it gets you killed in painful, nasty ways.

If you're a normal kid, reading this because you think it's fiction, great. Read on. I envy you for being able to believe that none of this ever happened.

But if you recognize yourself in these pages—if you feel something stirring inside—stop reading immediately. You might be one of us. And once you know that, it's only a matter of time before _they _sense it too, and they'll come for you.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

My name is Danny Fenton.

I'm twelve years old (in this fanfic, he is). Until a few months ago, I was a boarding student at Casper Acadamy, a private school for troubled kids in upstate Amity Park.

Am I a troubled kid?

Yeah, you could say that.

I could start at any point in my short miserable life to prove it, but things really started going bad last May, when our sixth-grade class took a field trip to Amity Park—twenty-eight mental-case kids and two teachers on a yellow school bus, heading to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to look at ancient Greek and Roman stuff.

I know—it sounds like torture. Most Casper field trips were.

But Mr. Lancer, our Latin teacher, was leading this trip, so I had hopes.

Mr. Lancer was this middle-aged guy. He was bald and had a scruffy beard and a frayed tweed jacket, which always smelled like coffee. You wouldn't think he'd be cool, but he told stories and jokes and let us play games in class. He also had this awesome collection of Roman armor and weapons, so he was the only teacher whose class didn't put me to sleep.

I hoped the trip would be okay. At least, I hoped for once I wouldn't get in trouble.

Boy, was I wrong.

See, bad things happen to me on field trips. Like at my fifth-grade school, when we went to the Shell City battlefield, I had this accident with a Revelutionary War cannon. I wasn't aiming for the school bus, but of course I got expelled anyway. And before that, at my fourth-grade school, when we took a behind-the-scenes tour of the Weenie Hut World (got the idea from SpongeBob) Weenie Shark Pool, I sort of hit the wrong lever on the catwalk and our class took an unplanned swim. And the time before that... Well, you get the idea.

This trip, I determined to be good.

All the way into the city, I put up with Francis, the freckly, red-headed kleptomaniac girl, hitting my best friend Tucker in the back of the head with chunks of peanut butter-and-ketchup sandwich.

Tucker was an easy target. He was scrawny. He cried when he got frustrated. He must've been held back several grades, because he was the only sixth grader with glasses and half-black-and-half-white skin. On top of all that, he was crippled. He had a note excusing him from PE for the rest of his life because he had some kind of muscular disease in his legs. He walked funny, like every step hurt him, but don't let that fool you. You should've seen him run when it was enchilada day in the cafeteria.

Anyway, Francis was throwing wads of sandwhich that stuck in his orange hair, and she knew I couldn't do anything back because I was already on probation. The headmaster had threatened me with death by in-school suspension if anything bad, embarrassing, or even mildly entertaining happened on this trip.

"I'm going to kill her," I mumbled.

Tucker tried to calm me down. "It's okay. I like peanut butter."

He dodged another piece of Francis' lunch.

"That's it." I started to get up, but Tucker pulled me back to my seat.

"You'll already on probation," he reminded me. "You know who'll get blamed when anything happens."

Looking back on it, I wish I'd decked Francis right then and there. In-school suspension would've been nothing compared to the mess I was about to get myself into.

Mr. Lancer led the museum tour.

He rode up front in his wheelchair, guiding us through the big echoey galleries, past marble statues and glass cases full of really old black-and-orange pottery.

It blew my mind that this stuff had survived for two thousand, three thousand years.

He gathered us around a thirteen-foot-tall stone column with a big sphinx on the top, and started telling us how it was a grave marker, a _stele, _for a girl just about our age. He told us about the carvings on the sides. I was trying to listen to what he had to say, because it was some kind of interesting, but everybody around me was talking, and every time I told them to shut up, Mrs. Mush, would give me the evil eyes.

Mrs. Mush was this little math teacher from Georgia who always wore a black leather jacket, even though she was fifty years olf. She looked mean enough to ride a Harley right into your locker. She had come to Casper halfway through the year, when our last math teacher had a nervous breakdown.

From her first day, Mrs. Mush loved Francis and figured I was devil spawn. She would point her crooked finger at me and say, "Now, honey," real sweet, and I knew I was going to get after-school detention for a month.

One time, after she'd made me erase answers out of old math workbooks until midnight, I told Tucker I didn't think Mrs. Mush was human. He looked at me, real serious, and said, "You're absolutely right."

Mr. Lancer kept talking about Greek funeral art.

Finally, Francis snickered something about the naked guy on the stele.

**Me Time:**

Me: Hey, Nancy, who's that naked guy on the stele? We eel? Or maybe Idiot Man?

Nancy Bobofit: IDIOT!!!!!!!!

(Go and PM me and talk to your FAVORITE Percy Jackson and the Olympians characters!)

**Storytime!:**

...and I turned around and said, "Will you just_ shut up_?"

It came out louder than I meant it to.

The whole group laughed. Mr. Lancer stopped his story.

"Mr. Fenton," he said, "did you have a comment?"

My face was totally red. I said, "No, sir."

Mr. Lancer pointed to one of the pictures on the stele. "Perhaps you'll tell us what this picture represents?"

I looked at the carving, and felt a flesh of relief, because I actually recognized it. "That's Vlad eating his kids, right?"

"Yes," Mr. Lancer said, obviously not satisfied. "And he did this because..."

"Well..." I racked my brain to remember. "Vlad was the king ghostly god, and--"

"God?" Mr. Lancer asked.

"Titan," I corrected myself. "And... he didn't trust his kids, who were the ghostly gods. So, um, Vlad ate them, right? But his wife hid baby Dan Phantom, and gave Vlad a rock to eat instead. And later, when baby Dan grew up, he tricked his dad, Vlad, into barfing up his brothers and sisters--"

"Eew!" said one of the girls behind me.

"--and so there was a big fight between the gods and the Titans," I continued, "and the ghostly gods won."

Some snickers from the group.

Behind me, Francis mumbled to a friend, "Like we're going to use this in real life. Like it's going to say on our job applications, 'Please explain why Vlad ate his kids'."

"And why, Mr. Fenton," Lancer said, "to paraphrase Mister Francis' excellent questing, does this matter in real life?"

"Busted," Tucker said.

"Shut up," the bully (Danny Phantom) (Decided to change it) hissed, his face even brighter yellow than his hair.

At least Bull the Bully got packed, too. Mr. Lancer was the only one who ever caught her saying anything wrong. He had radar ears.

I thought about his question, and shrugged. "I don't know, sir."

"I see," Mr. Lancer looked disappointed. "Well, half credit, Mr. Fenton. Dan did indeed feed Vlad a mixture of mustard and wine, which made him disgorge his other five children, who, of course, being immortal gods, had been living and growing up completely undigested in the Titan's stomach. The gods defeated their father, sliced him to pieces with his own scythe, and scattered his remains in Tatarus, the darkest part of the Nicktropolis Underworld. On that happy note, it's time for lunch. Mrs. Mush, would you lead us back outside?"

The class drifted off, the girls holding their stomachs, the guys pushing each other around and acting like doofuses.

Tucker and I were about to follow when Mr. Lancer said, "Mr. Fenton."

I knew that was coming.

I told Tucker to keep going. Then I turned toward Mr. Lancer. "Sir?"

Mr. Lancer had this look that wouldn't let you go—intense brown eyes that could've been a thousand years old and had seen everything.

"You must learn the answer to my question," Mr. Lancer told me.

"About the Titans?"

"About real life. And how your studies apply to it."

"Oh."

"What you learn from me," he said, "is vitally important. I expect you to treat it as such. I will accept only the best from you, Danny Fenton."

I wanted to get angry, this guy pushed me so hard.

I mean, sure, it was kind of cool on tournament days, when he dressed up in a suit of Roman armor and shouted: "What ho!" and challenged us, sword-point against chalk, to run to the board and name every Greek and Roman person who had ever lived, and their mother, and what god they worshipped. But Mr. Lancer expected me to be as good as everybody else, despite the fact that I have dyslexia and attention deficit disorder (A.D.D.) and I had never made above a C- in my whole life. No—he didn't expect me to be _as good_; he just expected me to be _better_. And I just couldn't learn all those names and facts, much less spell them correctly.

I mumbled something about trying harder, while Mr. Lancer took one sad look at the stele, like he'd been at this girl's funeral.

He told me to go outside and eat my lunch.

The class gathered on the front steps of the museum, where we could watch the foot traffic along Fifth Avenue.

Outside, a huge storm was brewing, with clouds blacker than I'd ever seen over the city. I figured maybe it was global warming or something, because the weather all across New York state had been weird since Christmas. We'd had massive snow storms, flooding, wildfires from lightning strikes. I wouldn't have been surprised if this was a hurricane blowing in.

Nobody else seemed to notice. Some of the guys were pelting pigeons with Lunchables crackers. The bully was trying to pickpocket something from a lady's purse, and, of course, Mrs. Mush wasn't seeing a thing.

Tucker and I sat on the edge of the fountain, away from the others. We thought that maybe if we did that, everybody wouldn't know we were from _that _school—the school for loser freaks who couldn't make it elsewhere.

"Detention?" Tucker asked.

"Nah," I said. "Not from Lancer. I just wish he'd lay off me sometimes. I mean—I'm not a genius."

Tucker didn't say anything for a while. Then, when I thought he was going to give me some deep philosophical comment to make me feel better, he said, "Can I have your apple?"

I didn't have much of an appetite, so I let him take it.

I watched the stream of cabs going down Fifth Avenue, and thought about my mom's "Fenton Lab," only a little ways uptown from where we sat. I hadn't seen her since Christmas. I wanted so bad to jump in a taxi and head home. She'd hug me and be glad to see me, but she'd be disappointed, too. She'd send me right back to Casper, remind me that I had to try harder, even if this was my sixth school in six years and I was probably going to be kicked out again. I wouldn't be able to stand that sad look she'd give me.

Mr. Lancer parked his old wheelchair at the base of the handicapped ramp. He ate celery while he read a paperback novel. A red umbrella stuck up from the back of his chair, making it look like a motorized cafe table.

I was about to unwrap my sandwhich when Dash Baxter appeared in front of me with his ugly friends—I guess he'd gotten tired of stealing from the tourists—and dumped his half-eaten lunch in Tucker's lap.

"Oops." He grinned at me with his crooked teeth. His shirt was orange, as if somebody had spray-painted his shirt with liquid Cheetos.

I tried to stay cool. The school counselor had told me a million times, "Count to ten, get control of your temper." But I was so mad my mind went blank. A wave roared in my ears.

I don't remember touching him, but the next thing I knew, Dash was sitting on his butt in the fountain, screaming, "Danny pushed me!"

Mrs. Mush materialized next to us.

Some of the kids were whispering: "Did you see--"

"--the water--"

"--like it grabbed her--"

I didn't know what they were talking about. All I knew was that I was in trouble again.

As soon as Mrs. Mush was sure poor little Dash was okay, promising to get him a new shirt at the museum gift shop, etc., etc., Mrs. Mush turned on me. There was a triumphant fire in her eyes, as if I'd done something she'd been waiting for all semester. "Now, honey--"

"I know," I grumbled. "A month erasing workbooks."

That wasn't the right thing to say.

"Come with me," Mrs. Mush said.

"Wait!" Tucker yelped. "It was me. _I _pushed him."

I stared at him, stunned. I couldn't believe he was trying to cover for me. Mrs. Mush scared Tucker to death.

She glared at him so hard his whiskery chin trembled.

"I don't think so, Mr. Folley," she said.

"But--"

"You—_will—_stay—here."

Tucker looked at me desprately.

"It's okay, man," I told him. "Thanks for trying."

"Honey," Mrs. Mush barked at me. "_Now_."

Dash Baxter smirked.

I gave him my I'll-kill-you-later stare. Then I turned to face Mrs. Mush, but she wasn't there. She was standing at the museum entrance, way at the top of the steps, gesturing impatiently for me to come on.

How'd she get there so fast?

I have moments like that a lot, when my brain falls asleep or something, and the next thing I know I've missed something, as if a puzzle piece fell out of the universe and left me staring at the blank piece behind it. The school counselor told me this was part of ADHD, my brain misinterpreting things.

I wasn't so sure.

I went after Mrs. Mush.

Halfway up the steps, I glanced back at Tucker. He was looking pale, cutting his eyes between me and Mr. Lancer, like he wanted Mr. Lancer to notice what was going on, but Mr. Lancer was still absorbed in his novel.

I looked back up. Mrs. Mush had disappeared again. She was now inside the building, at the end of the entrance hall.

Okay, I thought. She's going to make me buy a new shirt for Dash at the gift shop.

But apparently that wasn't the plan.

I followed her deeper into the museum. When I finally caught up to her, we were back in the Greek and Roman section.

Except for us, the gallery was empty.

Mrs. Mush stood with her arms crossed in front of a big marble frieze of the Greek gods. She was making this noise in her throat, like growling.

Even without the noise, I would've been nervous. It's weird being alone with a teacher, especially Mrs. Mush. Something about the way she looked at the frieze, as if she wanted to pulverize it...

"You've been giving us problems, honey," she said.

I did the safe thing. I said, "Yes, ma'am."

She tugged on the cuffs of her leather jacket. "Did you really think you would get away with it?"

The look in her eyes was beyond mad. It was evil.

She's a teacher, I thought nervously. It's not like she's going to hurt me.

I said, "I'll—I'll try harder, ma'am."

Thunder shook the building.

"We are not fools, Danny Fenton," Mrs. Mush said. "It was only a matter of time before we found you out. Confess, and you will suffer less pain."

I didn't know what she was talking about.

All I could think of was that the teachers must've found the illegal stash of candy I'd been selling out of my dorm room. Or maybe they'd realized I got my essay on _Tom Sawyer_ from the Internet without ever reading the book and now they were going to take away my grade. Or worse, they were going to make me read the book.

"Well?" she demanded.

"Ma'am, I don't..."

"Your time is up," she hissed.

Then the weirdest thing happened. Her eyes began to glow like barbecue coals. Her fingers stretched, turning into talons. Her jacket melted into large, leathery wings and claws and a mouth full of yellow fangs, and she was about to slice me to ribbons.

Then things got even stranger.

Mr. Lancer, who'd been out in front of the museum a minute before, wheeled his chair into the doorway of the gallery, holding a pen in his hand.

"What ho, Danny!" he shouted, and tossed the pen through the air.

Mrs. Mush lunged at me.

With a yelp, I dodged and felt talons slash the air next to my ear. I snatched the ballpoint pen out of the air, but when it hit my hand, it wasn't a pen anymore. It was a sword—Mr. Lancer's bronze sword, which he always used on tournament day.

Mrs. Mush spun around me with a murderous look in her eyes.

My knees were jelly. My hands were shaking so bad I almost dropped the sword.

She snarled, "Die, honey!"

And she flew straight at me.

Absolute terror ran through my body. I did the only thing that came naturally: I swung the sword.

The metal blade hit her shoulder and passed clean through her body as if she were made of water. _Hisss!_

Mrs. Mush was a sand castle in a power fan. She exploded into yellow powder, vaporized on the spot, leaving nothing but the smell of sulfer and a dying screech and a chill of evil in the air, as if those two glowing red eyes were still watching me.

I was alone.

There was a ballpoint pen in my hand.

Mrs. Mush wasn't there. Nobody was there but me.

My hands were still trembling. My lunch must have been contaminated with magic mushrooms or something.

Had I imagined the whole thing?

I went back outside.

It had started to rain.

Tucker was sitting by the fountain, a museum map tented over his head. Dash Baxter was still standing there, soaked from his swim in the fountain, grumbling to his ugly friends. When he saw me, he said, "I hope Mrs. Dodds whipped your butt."

I said, "Who?"

"Our _teacher_. Duh!"

I blinked. We had no teacher named Mrs. Dodds. I asked Dash what he was talking about.

He just rolled his eyes and turned away.

I asked Tucker where Mrs. Mush was.

He said, "Who?"

But he paused first, and he wouldn't look at me, so I thought he was messing with me.

"Not funny, man," I told him. "This is serious."

Thunder boomed overhead.

I saw Mr. Lancer sitting under his red umbrella, reading his book, as if he'd never moved.

I went over to him.

He looked up, a little distracted. "Ah, that would be my pen. Please bring your own writing untensil in the future, Mr. Fenton."

I handed Mr. Lancer his pen. I hadn't even realized I was still holding it.

"Sir," I said, "where's Mrs. Mush?"

He stared at me blankly. "Who?"

"The other chaperone, Mrs. Mush. The pre-algebra teacher."

He frowned and sat forward, looking mildly concerned. "Danny, there is no Mrs. Mush on this trip. As far as I know, there has never been a Mrs. Mush and Casper Acadamy. Are you feeling all right?"


	4. Chapter 4: TOLKTSOD

**Danny Phantom & The Olympians: The Lightning Thief**

By: lambchopfan1234

**Chapter 4: Three Old Ladies Knit the Socks of Death**

I was used to the occasional weird experience, but usually they were over quickly. This twenty-four/seven hallucination was more than I could handle. For the rest of the school year, the entire campus seemed to be playing some kind of trick on me. The students acted as if they were completely and totally convinced that Mrs. Dodds--a perky blond woman whom I'd never seen in my life until she got on our bus at the end of the field trip--had been our pre-algebra teacher since Christmas.

Every so often I would spring a Mrs. Mush reference on somebody, just to see if I could trip them up, but they would stare at me like I was psycho.

It got so I almost believed them--Mrs. Mush had never existed.

Almost.

But Tucker couldn't fool me. When I mentioned the name Mush to him, he would hesitate, then claim she didn't exist. But I knew he was lying.

Something was going on. Something _had _happened at the museum.

I didn't have much time to think about it during the days, but at night, visions of Mrs. Mush with talons and leathery wings would wake me up in a cold sweat.

The freak weather continued, which didn't help my mood. One night, a thunderstorm blew out the windows in my dorm room. A few days later, the biggest tornado ever spotted in Amity Park touched down only fifty miles from Casper Middle. One of the current events we studied in social studies class was the unusual number of small plance that had gone down in sudden squalls in the Atlantic that year.

I started feeling cranky and irritable most of the time. My grades slipped from Ds to Fs. I got into more fights with Dash Baxter amd his friends. I was sent out into the hallway in almost every class.

Finally, when our English teacher, Mr. Crocker, asked me why I was too lazy to study for spelling tests, I snapped. I called him an old sot. I wasn't even sure what it meant, but it sounded good.

The headmaster sent my mom a letter the following week, making it official: I would not be invited back next year to Casper Middle.

_Fine, _I told myself. _Just fine._

I was homesick.

I wanted to be with my mom in our little lab in the Fenton Lab, even if I had to go to public school and put up with my obnoxious stepfather and his stupid poker parties.

And yet... there were things I'd miss at Casper. The view of the woods out my dorm window, the Hudson River in the distance, the smell of pine trees. I'd miss Tucker, who'd been a good friend, even if he was a little strange. I worried how he'd survive next summer without me.

I'd miss Latin class, too--Mr. Lancer's crazy tournament days and his faith that I could do well.

As exam week got closer, Latin was the only test I studied for. I hadn't forgotten what Mr. Lancer had told me about this subject being life-and-death for me. I wasn't sure why, but I'd started to believe him.

*******

The evening before my final, I got so frustrated I threw the _Cambridge Guide to Greek Paranormalology _across my dorm room. Words had started swimming off the page, circling my head,the letters doing one-eighties as if they were riding skateboards. There was no way I was going to remember the difference between Cindy and Sandy, or Pappy and Pippy. And conjugating those paranormal verbs? Forget it.

I paced the room, feeling like ants were crawling around inside my shirt.

I remember Mr. Brunner's serious expression, his thousand-year-old eyes. _I will accept only the best from you, Danny Fenton_.

I took a deep breath. I picked up the mythology book.

I'd never asked for help before. Maybe if I talked to Mr. Lancer, he could give me some pointers. At least I could apologize for the big fat F I was about to score on his exam. I didn't want to leave Casper Academy with him thinking I hadn't tried.

I walked downstairs to the faculty offices. Most of them were dark and empty, but Mr. Lancer's door was ajar, light from his window stretching across the hallway floor.

I was three steps from the door handle when I heard voices inside the office. Mr. Lancer asked a question . A voice that was definitely Tucker's said. " . . . Worried about Danny, sir."

I froze.

I'm not usually an eavedropper, but I dare you to try not listening if you hear your best friend talking about you to an adult.

I inched closer.

" . . . Alone this summer," Tucker was saying. "I mean, a Kindly One in the _school_! Now that we know for sure, and _they _know too--" 

"We would only make matters worse by rushing him," Mr. Lancer said. "We need the boy to mature more."

"But he may not have time. The summer solstice deadline--"

"Will have to be resolved without him, Tucker. Let him enjoy his ignorance while he still can."

"Sir, he _saw _her . . . ."

"His imagination," Mr. Lance insisted. "The Mist over the students and staff would be enough to convince him of that."

"Sir, I... I can't fail in my duties again." Tucker's voice was choked with emotion. "You know what that would mean."

"You haven't failed, Tucker," Mr. Lancer said kindly. "I should have seen her for what she was. Now let's just worry about keeping Danny alive until next fall--"

The paranormalology book dropped out of my hand with a thud.

Mr. Lancer when silent.

My heart hammering. I picked up the book and backed down the hall.

A shadow slid across the lighted glass of Lancer's office door, the shadow of something much taller than any wheelchair-bound teacher, holding something that looked suspiciously like an archer's bow.

I opened the nearest door and slipped inside.

A few second later I heard a slow _clop-clop-clop_, like muffled wood blocks, then a sound like an animal snuffling right outside my door. A large, dark shape paused in front of the glass, then moved on.

A bead of sweat trickled down my neck.

Somewhere in the hallway, Mr. Lancer spoke. "Nothing," he murmured. "My nerves haven't been right since the winter solstice."

"Mine neither," Tucker said. "But I could have sworn..."

"Go back to the dorm," Mr. Lancer told him. "You've got a long day of exams tomorrow."

"Don't remind me."

The lights went out in Mr. Lancer's office.

I waited in the dark for what seemed like forever.

Finally, I slipped out into the hallway and made my way back to the dorm.

Tucker was lying on his bed, studying his Latin exam notes like he'd been there all night.

"Hey," he said, bleary-eyed. "You going to be ready for this test?"

I didn't answer.

"You look awful." He frowned. "Is everything okay?"

"Just... tired."

I turned so he couldn't read my expression, and started getting ready for bed.

I didn't understand what I'd heard downstairs, I wanted to believe I'd imagined the whole thing.

But one thing was clear: Tucker and Mr. Lancer were talking about me right behind my back. They thought I was in some kind of danger.

*******

The next afternoon, as I was leaving the three-hour Latin exam, my eyes swimming with all the Greek and Roman names I'd misspelled, Mr. Lancer called me back inside.

For a moment, I was worried he'd found out about my eavesdropping the night before, but that didn't seem to be the problem.

"Danny," he said. "Don't be discouraged about leaving Casper. It's... It's for the best."

His tone was kind, but the words still embarrassed me. Even though he was speaking quietly, the other kids finishing the test could hear. Dash Baxter made sarchastic little kissing motions with his lips.

I mumbled, "Okay, sir."

"I mean..." Mr. Lancer wheeled his chair back and forth, like he wasn't sure what to say. "This isn't the right place for you. It was only a matter of time."

My eyes stung.

Here was my favorite teacher, in front of the class, telling me I couldn't handle it. After saying he believed in me all year, now he was talling me I was destined to get kicked out.

"Right," I said, trembling.

"No, no," Mr. Lancer said. "Oh, confound it all. What I'm trying to say... you're not normal, Danny. There's nothing to be--"

"Thanks," I blurted. "Thanks a lot, sir, for reminding me."

"Danny--"

But I was already gone.

*******

On the last day of the term, I shoved my clothes into my suitcase.

The other guys were joking around, talking about their vacation plans. One of them was going on a hiking trip to Switzerland. Another was cruising the Carribean for a month. Thet were juvenile delinquents, like me, but they were _rich _juvenile delinquents. Their daddies were excecutives, or ambassadors, or celebrities. I was a nobody, from a family of nobodies.

They asked me what I'd be doing this summer and I told them I was going back to the city.

What I didn't tell them was that I'd have to get a summer job walking dogs or selling magazine subscriptions, and spend my free time worrying about where I'd go to school in the fall.

"Oh," one of the guys said. "That's cool."

They went back to their conversation as if I'd never existed.

The only person I dreaded saying good-bye to was Tucker, but as it turned out, I didn't have to. He'd booked a ticket to Manhattan on the same greyhound as I had, so there we were, together again, heading into the city.

During the whole bus ride, Tucker kept glancing nervously down the aisle, watching the other passengers. It occured to me that he'd always acted nervous and fidgety when we left Casper, as if he expected something bad to happen. Before, I'd always assumed he was worried about getting teased. But there was nobody to tease him on the Greyhound.

Finally I couldn't stand it anymore.

I said, "Looking for Kindly Ones?"

Tucker nearly jumped out of his seat. "Wha--what do you mean?"

I confessed something about eavesdropping on him and Mr. Lancer the night before the exam.

Tucker's eye twitched. "How much did you hear?"

"Oh... not much. What's the summer solstice deadline?"

He winced. "Look, Danny... I was just worried for you, see? I mean, hallucinating about demon math teachers..."

"Tucker--"

"And I was telling Mr. Lancer that maybe you were overstressed or something, because there was no such person as Mrs. Mush, and..."

"Tucker, you're a really, really bad liar."

His ears turned pink.

From his shirt pocket, he picked out a grubbt business card. "Just take this, okay? In case you need me this summer."

The card was in fancy script, which was murder on my dyslexic eyes, but I finally made out something like:

TUCKER FOLLEY

KEEPER

HALF-GHOST HILL

LONG ISLAND, AMITY PARK

(800)-009-0009

"What's Half--"

"Don't say it aloud!" he yelped. "That's my, um... summer address."

My heart sank. Tucker had a summer home. I'd never considered that his family might be as rich as the others at Casper.

"Okay," I said glumly. "So, like if I want to come visit your mansion."

He nodded. "Or... or if you need me."

"Why would I need you?"

It came out harsher than I meant it to.

Tucker blushed right down to his Adam's apple. "Look, Danny, the truth is, I--I kind of have to protect you."

I stared at him.

All year long, I'd gotten into fights, keeping bullies away from him. I'd lost sleep worrying that he'd get beaten up next year without me. And here he was acting like he was the one who defended _me._

"Tucker," I said, "what exactly are you protecting me from?"

There was a huge grinding noise under our feet. Black smoke poured from the dashboard and the whole bus filled with a smell like rotten eggs. The driver cursed and limped the Greyhound over to the side of the highway.

After a few minutes clanking around in the engine compartment, the driver announced that we'd all have to get off. Tucker and I filed outside with everybody else.

We were on a stretch of country road-- no place you'd notice if you didn't break down there. On our side of the highway there was nothing but maple trees and litter from passing cars. On the other side, across four lanes of asphalt shimmering with afternoon heat, was an old-fashioned fruit stand.

The stuff on sale looked really good: heaping boxes bloodred cherries and apples, walnuts and apricots, jugs of cider in a claw-foot tub full of ice. There were no customers, just three old ladies sitting in rocking chairs in the shade of a maple tree, knitting the biggest pair of socks I'd ever seen.

I mean these socks were the size of sweaters, but they were clearly socks. The lady on the right knitted one of them. The lady on the left knitted the other. The lady in the middle held an enormous basket of electric-blue yarn.

All three women looked ancient, with pale faces wrinkled like fruit leather, silver hair tied back in white bandannas, bony arms sticking out of bleached cotton dresses.

The weirdest thing was, they seemed to be looking right at me.

I looked over at Tucker to say something about this and saw that the blood had drained from his face. His nose was twitching.

"Tucker?" I said. "Hey, man--"

"Tell me they aren't looking at you. They are, aren't they?"

"Yeah. Weird, huh? You think these socks would fit me?"

"Not funny, Danny. Not funny at all."

The old lady in the middle took out a huge pair of scissors-- gold and silver, long-bladed, like shears. I heard Tucker catch his breath.

"We're getting on the bus," he told me. "Come on."

"What?" I said. "It's a thousand degrees in there."

"Come on!" He pried open the door and climbed inside, but I stayed back.

Across the road, the old ladies were still watching me. The middle one cut the yarn, and I swear I could hear that _snip _across four lanes of traffic. Her two friends bailed up the electric-blue socks, leaving me wondering who they could possibly be for-- Sasquatch (The X's) or Dogzilla (The Fairly Odd Parents).

At the rear of the bus, the driver wrenched a big chunk of smoking metal out of the engine compartment. The bus shuddered, and the engine roared back to life.

The passengers cheered.

"Darn right!" yelled the driver. He slapped the bus with his hat. "Everybody back on board!"

Once we got going, I started feeling feverish, as if I'd caught the flu.

Tucker didn't look much better. He was shivering and his teeth were chattering.

"Tucker?"

"Yeah?"

"What are you not telling me?"

He dabbed his forehead with his shirt sleeve. "Danny, what did you see back at the fruit stand?"

"You mean the old ladies? What is it about them, man? They're not like... Mrs. Mush, are they?"

His expression was hard to read, but I got the feeling that the fruit stand ladies were something much, much worse than Mrs. Mush. He said, "Just tell me what you saw."

"The middle one took out her scissors, and she cut the yarn."

He closed his eyes and made a gesture with his fingers that might've been crossing himself, but it wasn't. It was something else, something almost--older.

He said, "You saw her snip the cord."

"Yeah. So?" But even as I said it, I knew it was a big deal.

"This is not happening," Tucker mumbled. He started chewing at his thumb. "I don't want this to be like the last time."

"What last time?"

"Always sixth grade. They never get past sixth."

"Tucker," I said, because he was really starting to scare me. "What are you talking about?"

"Let me walk you home from the bus station. Promise me."

This seemed like a strange request to me, but a promised he could.

"Is this like a superstition or something?" I asked.

No answer.

"Tucker-- that snipping of the yarn. Does that mean somebody is going to die?"

He looked at me mournfully, like he was already picking the flowers I'd like best one my coffin.


	5. C5: Tucker Unexpectedly Loses His Pants

**Danny Phantom and the Olympians: The Lightning Thief**

By: lambchopfan1234

**Chapter 5: Tucker Unexpectedly Loses His Pants**

Confession time: Danny ditched Tucker as soon as they got to the bus terminal.

I know, I know. It was rude. But Tucker was freaking Danny out like Danny was a dead man, muttering "Why does this always happen?" and "Why does it always have to be sixth grade?"

Whenever Tucker got upset, Tucker's bladder acted up, so Danny wasn't surprised when, as soon as they got off the bus, he made Danny promise to wait for him, and then made a beeline for the restroom. Instead of waiting, Danny got his suitcase, slipped outside, and caught the first taxi uptown.

"East One-Hundred-and-Fourth and First," Danny told the driver.

A word about Danny's mom, before you meet her.

Her name is Maddie Fenton and she's the best person in the whole world, which just proves Danny's theory that the best people have the rottenest luck. Her own parents died in a plane accident when she was five, and she was raised by her Uncle Sal, who didn't care much about her. She wanted to be a novelist, so she spent junior high school working to save enough money for a college with a good writing program. Then Sal got cancer, and Danny's mom had to quit school her senior year to take care of him. After he died, she was left with no money, no family, and no diploma.

The only good break she ever got was meeting Danny's mysterious Supergh—beep—dad.

Danny doesn't have any memories of him, just this sort of warm glow, maybe the barest trace of his smile.

Maddie doesn't like to talk about it because it makes her sad. She has no pictures.

See, they weren't married. She told me he was rich and important, and their relationship was a secret. Then one day, he set sail across the Atlantic when Danny was 14 days old, on an important journey, and never came back.

Lost at sea, Maddie told Danny. Not dead. Lost at sea.

Maddie worked odd jobs, took night classes to get her high school diploma, and raised Danny on her own. She never complained or got mad. Not even once. But Danny knew he wasn't an easy kid.

Finally, she married Mr. Krabs, who was nice the first thirty seconds Danny and Maddie met him, then showed his true colors as a world class jerk. When I was young, I nicknamed him Smelly McCrab-Cakes. I'm sorry, but that's the truth. The guy reeked like moldy garlic-crab pizza wrapped in gym shorts.

Between the two of them, they made Danny's mom's life pretty hard. The way Smelly McCrab-Cakes treated her, the way he and Danny got along… well, when Danny got home is a good example.

Danny walked into the Fenton Lab, hoping Maddie would be home from work. Instead, Smelly McCrab-Cakes was in the living room, playing poker with his buddies. The television blared ESPN of TBB. Chips and beer cans (sorry for the references kids, but ADULTS DO STUPID THINGS, gah…) were strewn all over the carpet.

Hardly looking up, Mr. Krabs said around his cigar, "So, you're home."

"Where's my mom?"

"Working," Mr. Krabs said. "You got any cash?"

That was it. No _Welcome back. Good to see you. How has your life been in the last six months?_

Mr. Krabs had put on weight. He looked like a tuskless walrus who was inbred with a crab who thought he was a crab in thrift store clothes. He had three hairs on his head, all combed over his bald scalp, as if that made him handsome or something.

He managed the Krusty Krab in Bikini Bottom, but he stayed home most of the time. Danny doesn't know why he hadn't been fired by himself long before. Mr. Krabs just kept on collecting paychecks, spending the money on cigars that made Danny nauseous, and on beer, of course. Always beer. Whenever Danny was home, Mr. Krabs expected Danny to provide his gambling funds. He called that their "guy secret." Meaning, if Danny told Maddie, Mr. Krabs would punch Danny's lights out.

"I don't have any cash," Danny told Mr. Krabs.

Mr. Krabs raised a greasy eyebrow.

Mr. Krabs could sniff out money like a bloodhound, which was surprising, since his own smell should've covered up everything else.

"You took a taxi from the bus station," Mr. Krabs said. "Probably played with a twenty. Got six, seven bucks in change. Somebody expects to live under this roof, he ought to carry his own weight. Am I right, Spongebob?"

Spongebob, the Lab Monitor, looked at Danny with a twinge of sympathy. "Come on, Mr. Krabs," he said. "The kid just got here."

"Am I right?" Mr. Krabs repeated.

Spongebob scowled into his bowl of Krabby Patties. The other two guys, Patrick and Squidward, farted in harmony.

"Fine," Danny said. Danny dug a wad of dollars out of his pocket and threw the money on the table. "I hope you lose."

"Your report card came, brain boy!" Mr. Krabs shouted after Danny. "I wouldn't act so snooty!"

Danny slammed the door to his room, which really wasn't his room. During school months, it was Mr. Krabs' "study."

Mr. Krabs didn't study anything in there except old car magazines, but he loved shoving stuff in Danny's closet, leaving his muddy boots on Danny's windowsill, and doing his best to make the place smell like his nasty cologne and cigars and stale beer.

Danny dropped his suitcase on the bed. Home sweet home.

Mr. Krabs' smell was almost worse than the nightmares about Mrs. Lulag, or that sound of the old Paulinas' shears snipping the yarn.

But as soon as Danny thought that, his legs felt weak. He remembered Tucker's look of panic—how he'd made Danny promise he wouldn't go without him. A sudden chill rolled through Danny. He felt like someone—something—was looking for him right now, causing trouble in its path.

Then Danny heard Maddie's voice. "Danny?"

Maddie opened the bedroom door, and Danny's fears melted.

Maddie can make Danny feel good just by walking into the room. Her eyes sparkle and change color in the light. Her smile is as warm as a quilt (it's a simile, kids! Ha ha hoy). She's got a few gray streaks mixed in with her orange hair, but Danny never thinks of her as old. When Maddie looks at Danny, it's like she's seeing all the good things about Danny, none of the bad. Danny never heard Maddie raise her voice to anyone, not even him or Mr. Krabs.

"Oh, Danny." Maddie hugged Danny tight. "I can't believe it. You've grown since Christmas!"

Maddie's red-white-and-orange Sweet on Nicktropolis uniform smelled like the best things in the world: chocolate, licorice, and all the other stuff she sold at the candy shop in Great Center, Amity Park. She'd brought Danny a huge bag of "free samples," the way she always did when Danny came home.

Danny and Maddie sat together on the edge of the bed. While Danny attacked the blueberry sour strings, she ran her hand through Danny's hair and demanded to know everything Danny hadn't put in his letters. Maddie didn't mention anything about Danny's getting expelled. She didn't seem to care about that. But was Danny okay? Was her little demighost boy doing alright?

Danny told her Maddie was smothering him, and to lay off and all that, but secretly, Danny was really, really glad to see her.

From the other room, Mr. Krabs yelled, "Hey, Maddie—how about some bean dip, huh?"

Danny gritted his teeth.

For her sake, Danny tried to sound upbeat about his last days at Casper Academy. Danny told Maddie he wasn't too down about the expulsion. He'd lasted almost the whole year this time. Danny'd made some new friends. Danny'd done pretty well in Latin. And honestly, the fights hadn't been as bad as the headmaster said. Danny liked Casper Academy. Danny really did. Danny put such a good spin on the year. Danny almost convinced himself. He started choking up, thinking about Tucker and Mr. Lancer. Even Dash Baxter suddenly didn't seem so bad.

Until that trip to the museum…

"What?" Maddie asked. Her eyes tugged at Danny's conscience, trying to pull out the secrets. "Did something scare you?"

"No, Mom."

Danny felt bad lying. Danny wanted to tell Maddie about Mrs. Lulag and the three Paulinas with the yarn, but Danny thought it would sound stupid.

Maddie pursed her lips. She knew Danny was holding back, but she didn't push him.

"I have a surprise for you," Maddie said. "We're going to the beach."

Danny's eyes widened. "Bikini Ashore?"

"Three nights—same cabin."

"When?"

Maddie smiled. "As soon as I get changed."

Danny couldn't believe it. Maddie and Danny haven't been to Bikini Ashore the last two summers, because Mr. Krabs said there wasn't enough money.

Mr. Krabs appeared on the doorway and growled, "Bean dip, Maddie? Didn't you hear me?"

Danny wanted to punch Mr. Krabs, but he met Maddie's eyes and Danny understood she was offering Danny a deal: be nice to Mr. Krabs for a little while. Just until she was ready to leave for Bikini Ashore. Then they would be out of there.

"I was on my way, honey," Maddie told Mr. Krabs. "We were just talking about the trip."

Mr. Krabs's eyes got small. "The trip? You mean you were serious about that?"

"I knew it," Danny muttered. "He won't let us go."

"Of course he will," Maddie said evenly. "Your stepfather is just worried about money. That's all. Besides," she added. "Eugene won't have to settle for bean dip. I'll make him enough seven-layer dip for the whole weekend. Guacamole. Sour cream. The works."

Mr. Krabs softened a bit. "So this money for your trip… it comes out of your clothes budget, right?"

"Yes, honey," Maddie said.

"And you won't take my car anywhere but there and back."

"We'll be very careful."

Mr. Krabs scratched his chin. "Maybe if you hurry with that seven-layer dip… And maybe if the kid apologizes for interrupting my poker game."

_Maybe if I kick you in your soft spot,_ Danny thought. _And make you sing soprano for a week._

But Maddie's eyes warned Danny not to make Mr. Krabs mad.

_Why did she put up with this guy? _Danny wanted to scream. _Why did she care what he thought?_

"I'm sorry," Danny muttered. "I'm really sorry I interrupted your incredibly important poker game. Please go back to it right now."

Mr. Krabs's eyes narrowed. His tiny brain was probably trying to detect sarcasm in Danny's statement.

"Yeah, whatever," Mr. Krabs decided.

Mr. Krabs went back to his game.

"Thank you, Danny," Maddie said. "Once we get to Montauk, we'll talk more about… whatever you've forgotten to tell me, okay?"

For a moment, Danny thought he saw anxiety in Maddie's eyes—the same fear he'd seen in Tucker during the bus ride—as if Maddie, too, felt a creepy chill in the air.

But then Maddie's smile returned, and Danny figured he must have been mistaken. Maddie ruffled Danny's hair and went to make Mr. Krabs his seven-layer dip.

An hour later Danny and Maddie were ready to leave.

Mr. Krabs took a break from his poker game long enough to watch Danny lug Maddie's bags into the car. He kept griping and groaning about losing her cooking—and most important, his '78 Camaro—for the whole weekend.

"Not a scratch on this car, brain boy," Mr. Krabs warned Danny as Danny loaded the last bag. "Not one little scratch."

Like Danny'd be the one driving. Danny was twelve. But that didn't matter to Mr. Krabs. If a seagull so much as pooped on his paint job, he'd find a way to blame Danny.

Watching Mr. Krabs lumber back toward the apartment building, Danny did something he couldn't explain. As Mr. Krabs reached the doorway, Danny made the hand gesture he'd seen Tucker make on the bus, a sort of warding-off-evil gesture, a clawed hand over his heart, then a shoving movement towards Mr. Krabs. The screen door slammed shut so hard it whacked him in the butt and set him flying up the staircase as if he'd been shot from a cannon. Maybe it was just the wind, or some freak accident with the hinges, but Danny didn't stay long enough to find out.

Danny got in the Camaro and told Maddie to step on it.

A/N: That was a Jackbutt EXTREME!

Danny and Maddie's rental cabin was on the south shore, way out on the tip of Even Longer Island. It was a little pastel box with faded curtains, half sunken into the dunes. There was always sand in the sheets and spiders in the cabinets, and most of the time the sea was too cold to swim in.

Danny loved the place.

They'd been going there since Danny was a baby. Maddie had been going even longer. She never exactly said, but Danny knew why the beach was special to Maddie. It was the place where she met the mysterious dad.

As they got closer to Bikini Ashore, she seemed to grow younger, years of worry and work disappearing from her face. Her eyes turned into the color of the sea (not polluted or oily, the blue ocean sea).

They got there at sunset, opened all the cabin's windows, and went through their usual cleaning routine. They walked on the beach, fed blue corn chips to the seagulls, and munched on blue jelly beans, blue saltwater taffy, and all the other free samples Maddie had brought from work.

Danny guessed that he should explain the blue food.

See, Mr. Krabs had once told Maddie there was no such thing. They had this fight, which seemed like a really small thing at the time. But ever since, Maddie went out of her way to eat blue. She baked blue birthday cakes. She mixed blueberry smoothies. She brought blue-corn tortilla chips and brought home blue candy from the shop. This—along with keeping her maiden name, Fenton, rather than calling herself Mrs. Krabs—was proof that she wasn't totally suckered by Mr. Krabs. She did have a rebellious streak, like Danny.

When it got dark, they made a fire. They roasted hot dogs and marshmallows. Maddie told Danny stories about the books she wanted to write someday, when she had enough money to quit the Sweet on Nicktropolis.

Eventually, Danny got up the nerve to ask about what was always on his mind whenever they came to Bikini Ashore—Danny's mysterious dad. Maddie's eyes went all misty. Danny figured she would tell him the same things he always did, but Danny never got tired of hearing them.

"He was kind, Danny," Maddie said. "Fat, handsome, and powerful. But gentle, too. You have his black hair, you know, and his blue and sometimes green eyes."

Maddie fished a blue jelly bean out of her candy bag. "I wish he could see you, Danny. He would be so proud."

Danny wondered how Maddie could say that. What was so great about him? A dyslexic, hyperactive boy with a D-plus report card, kicked out of school for the sixth time in six years.

"How old was I?" Danny asked. "I mean… when he left?"

Maddie watched the flames. "He was only with me for one summer, Danny. Right here at this beach. This cabin."

"But… he knew me as a baby."

"No, honey. He knew I was expecting a baby, but he never saw you. He had to leave before you were born."

Danny tried to square that with the fact that he seemed to remember… something about his father. A warm glow. A smile.

Danny always assumed that his dad knew him as a baby. Maddie never said it outright, but still, Danny'd felt it must be true. Now, to be told that he'd never even seen Danny…

Danny felt angry at his father. Maybe it was stupid, but Danny resented him for going on that ocean voyage, for not having the guts to marry Maddie. He'd left them, and now they were stuck with Smelly McKrabkakes.

"Are you going to send me away again?" Danny asked Maddie. "To another boarding school?"

Maddie pulled a marshmallow from the fire.

"I don't know, honey." Her voice was heavy. "I think… I think we'll have to do something."

"Because you don't want me around?" Danny regretted the words as soon as they were out.

Maddie's eyes welled with tears. She took Danny's hand, squeezed it tight. "Oh, Danny, no, I—I _have _to, honey. For your own good. I have to send you away."

Maddie's words reminded Danny of what Mr. Lancer had said—that it was best for Danny to leave Casper.

"Because I'm not normal," Danny said.

"You say that as if it's a bad thing, Danny. But you don't realize how important you are. I thought Casper Academy would be far enough away. I thought you'd finally be safe."

"Safe from what?"

Maddie met Danny's eyes, and a flood of memories came back to Danny—all the weird, scary things that had ever happened to Danny, some of which he tried to forget.

During third grade, a Cyclops ghost in a black trench coat had stalked Danny on the playground. When the teachers threatened to call the police, he went away growling, but no one believed Danny when he told them that under his broad-brimmed hat, the man only had one eye, right in the middle of his head.

Before that—a really early memory. Danny was in preschool, and Miss Weemer accidentally put Danny down for a nap in a cot that a snake had slithered into. Maddie screamed when she came to pick Danny up and found him playing with a limp, scaly ghost rope he'd somehow managed to strangle to death with his meaty toddler hands.

In every single school, something creepy had happened, something unsafe, and Danny was forced to move.

Danny knew he should tell Maddie about the Paulinas at the fruit stand, and Mrs. Lulag at the art museum, about his weird hallucination that he had sliced his math teacher into dust with a sword. But he couldn't make himself tell her. He had a strange feeling that the news would end their trip to Bikini Ashore, and he didn't want that.

"I've tried to keep you as close to me as I could," Maddie said. "They told me that was a mistake. But there's only one other option, Danny—the place your father wanted to send you. And I just… I just can't stand to do it."

"My father wanted me to go to a special school?"

"Not a school," Maddie said softly. "A summer camp."

Danny's head was spinning. Why would his dad—who hadn't even stayed around long enough to see Danny be born—talk to Maddie about a summer camp? And if it was so important, why hadn't she ever mentioned it before?

"I'm sorry, Danny," Maddie said, seeing the look in Danny's eyes. "But I can't talk about it. I—I couldn't send you to that place. It might mean saying good-bye to you for good."

"For good? But if it's only a summer camp…"

Maddie turned towards the fire, and Danny knew from her expression that if Danny asked her any more questions she would start to cry.

That night Danny had a vivid dream.

It was storming on the beach, and two beautiful ghost animals, a ghost horse and a ghost eagle, were trying to kill each other at the edge of the surf. The ghost eagle swooped down and slashed the ghost horse's muzzle with its huge talons. The ghost horse reared up and kicked at the ghost eagle's wings. As they fought, the ground rumbled and a monstrous voice, Vlad's voice, chuckled beneath the Earth.

"Fight harder, Smitty and Kracket!" Vlad goaded. "And I'm going to slow down this waste of time."

Danny ran towards Smitty the Horse, and Kracket the Eagle, knowing he had to stop them from killing each other, but he was running in slow motion. Danny knew he would be too late. Danny saw Kracket the Eagle dive down, its beak aimed at Smitty the Horse's wide eyes, and Danny screamed, _NOOOOO!_

Danny woke with a start.

Outside, it really was storming, the kind of storm that cracks trees and blows up houses. There was no horse or eagle on the beach, just lightning making false daylight, and twenty-foot waves pounding the dunes like artillery.

With the next thunderclap, Maddie woke. She sat up, eyes wide, and said, "Hurricane."

Danny knew that was crazy. Even Longer Island never sees hurricanes this early in the summer. But the ocean seemed to have forgotten.

Over the roar of the wind, Danny heard a distant bellow, an angry, tortured sound that made his hair stand on end.

Then a much closer noise, like mallets in the sand. A desperate voice—someone yelling, pounding on our cabin door.

Maddie sprang out of bed in her nightgown and threw open the lock.

Tucker stood framed in the doorway against a backdrop of pouring rain. But he wasn't… he wasn't exactly Tucker.

"Searching all night," Tucker gasped. "What were you thinking?"

Maddie looked at Danny in terror—not scared of Tucker, but why he'd come.

"Danny," Maddie said, shouting to be heard over the rain. "What happened at school? What didn't you tell me?"

Danny was frozen, looking at Tucker. Danny couldn't understand what he was seeing.

"_Oo Zoeouo koaoio aololoio tohoeoooio!" _Tucker yelled. "It's right behind me! Didn't you tell her?"

Danny was too shocked to register that Tucker'd just cursed in Paracient Greek, and Danny just understood him perfectly. Danny was too shocked to wonder how Tucker had gotten here by himself in the middle of the night. Because Tucker didn't have his pants on—and where his legs should be…where his legs should be…

Maddie looked at Danny sternly and talked in a tone she'd never used before: "_Danny. _Tell me _now!"_

"Uh… uh… there was this person who I thought was a teacher, she turned into an… uh… uh… eagle, yeah, eagle with those talon things… and… uh… later on, there was these ladies at the fruit stand… and… uh… when they cut the… uh… yarn…the socks were big and the bus drove… uh… away?" Danny stammered.

Maddie stared at Danny, her face deathly pale in the flashes of lightning.

Maddie grabbed her purse, tossed Danny his rain jacket, and said, "Get to the car. Both of you. _Go!"_

Tucker ran for the Camaro—but he wasn't running, exactly. He was trotting, shaking his shaggy hindquarters, and suddenly his story about a muscular disorder in his legs made sense to Danny. Danny understood how Tucker could run so fast and still limp when he walked.

Because where his feet should be, there were no feet. There were cloven hooves.


End file.
